


and my fingers ran with blood

by Salomeia



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Bucky Barnes Remembers, F/M, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Red Room
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-01
Updated: 2015-03-01
Packaged: 2018-03-15 20:42:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3461342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Salomeia/pseuds/Salomeia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They've met before.</p>
            </blockquote>





	and my fingers ran with blood

**Author's Note:**

> Honestly, I'm not sure what I'm doing here. I don't know much about comics and yet this is a MCU/Marvel comics fusion fic (please don't hate me!). I just couldn't get this idea out of my head and I first wrote a smaller piece that I posted on tumblr, but I really wanted to expand that and here we are. It's a small expansion. :) Anyway, let me know what you think.

Bucky meets Natasha the third of all the Avengers. 

It seems like Steve's trying to give Bucky time to adjust or something since he's introducing his team, his _friends_ to him one by one. A part of him wants to snap at Steve, say he's not about to crack and he can meet all of them at the same time, that he doesn't need to be treated with silk gloves. But. Well, but, there's another part of him, the part that's nervous, paranoid, scared. The part he doesn't like to acknowledge, even if it's unhealthy. And of course Steve would know, see through whatever masks he's putting on and doing whatever he thinks is best, despite Bucky grumbling protests. The punk.  


Bucky's grateful he's here.

On one bright, sunny morning Steve says over his coffee mug that he's invited one of his friends to dinner. Bucky rolls his eyes, but nods. Last week they'd met Bruce at the Stark Tower and week before that Tony. Bucky's pretty sure Steve hadn't wanted to introduce Stark Junior to him so quickly, but they'd had an issue with his arm, so they hadn't had much of choice.  
Steve had probably thought Tony would annoy Bucky, but he didn't. Okay, he did. Tony probably annoyed everybody, but somehow Bucky hadn't actually minded. His exuberance had been nice. 

In the evening the doorbell rings and there she is. Steve gives her a warm smile as she enters. 

"Welcome," he says. "Bucky, this is Natasha. Natasha, Bucky."

It's the strangest thing, how that name seems wrong. 

He doesn't think either of them notice his slight hesitance as he says nice to meet you. 

They eat. They talk. 

She watches him, his reactions. He hides behind his hair, but inexplicably it doesn't make him nervous.

Later Steve surprises her by saying something crude and she laughs, head thrown back. Her laughter tingles down his spine, familiar in a way he can't describe. 

The next night he dreams about green eyes.

***

A few months go by and he's finally met all of them. Bucky's at the Stark Tower all by himself after a meeting with Tony and Bruce when he runs into Natasha at the kitchen. She's filling out some form on the computer as Bucky walks behind her and glances at screen.

"You're not that young," he blurts out when his eyes land on the date of birth-box. His eyes widen when he realizes what he's said. Then suddenly a flood of memories hit him and he's struggling to keep standing.

_Natalia._

There's a long silence before Natasha turns to look at him. "Thanks," she starts drily, but gets up as she realizes something's wrong, takes a step towards him.

"You remembered something," she states suddenly, almost making Bucky jump. 

Bucky licks his lips as he tries to decide what to say. The years, dates had been meaningless to him once upon a time, but he remembers this. He remembers her. And he knows there is no way possible Natasha had been born in 1984. 

"You remember something about me," she says, certain, her eyes unfathomable, body coiled tight as if waiting for a punch. 

He doesn't understand how she can make such intuitive guesses, he knows he's not easy to read. He counters with a question of his own. "How old do you think you are?"

"How old I _think_ I am?" She repeats, voice inflectionless, eyes boring into his. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

An old, forgotten instinct makes him want to snarl at her to not play stupid, but instead he shrugs, forcing his muscles loose, never taking his eyes off hers. "Was I familiar to you, when we first met at Steve's apartment?"

"Stop playing around!" She snaps, fire in her words, head held high. "Just tell me."

He nods, but still hesitates a few moments before saying it. "You weren't born in the 80s." 

“What,” she whispers, clearly thrown. This was not what she had been expecting at all.

He just looks at her feeling helpless,. “I.. It’s not possible.”

Natasha's fingers twitch as if she’s going to attack him, instead she exhales loudly. "Explain." She demands in Russian. Probably not even realizing she's switched languages.

Maybe it's the Russian, maybe it's her tone that makes Bucky stand ramrod straight, voice even. “We met in the Red Room,” he says. 

"Yes, I remember I was there," she says in English this time, her tone betraying nothing, like they were talking about the weather.

"You were younger," he continues. "Somebody had just shot the President of the United States."

Now he can see the cracks in her facade, the small tremors as she shakes her head. “I remember my time there.”

"Do you?" He asks, kind of hating the clinical way he’s observing her, but he can’t help it any more than she can help her body’s response. It must be terrible for her he thinks, losing some measure of control again thanks to the Red Room. 

It is for him.

He watches as she lets her vulnerability show in the way she sits down and puts her head in her hands, takes a few deep breaths. Willing herself to calm down.

He remembers the vibrant red of her hair under a fluorescent light, the garish green of the training mat. The pure white of her bed sheets.

Then she looks at him, composed again. “I had been there some time before that, before you came.”

Bucky finds himself nodding at the unasked question. Yes, he had been brought there to train her. Make her better. Exceptional. And he had. 

She had been his best student.

Their eyes lock and he’s not sure if it’s good or bad that the jagged memory has freed something in both of them.


End file.
